


It Didn't Happen One Night

by roboticonography



Series: Sex Disaster [1]
Category: Agent Carter (Marvel Short Film), Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Steggy Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: What happened on Steve and Peggy’s Saturday night date—and what didn’t happen—becomes a topic of interest among friends and colleagues.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlereyofsunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlereyofsunlight/gifts).



> AU for S1 of Agent Carter, based on the premise that Steve was found not long after his plane went down. Written for littlereyofsunlight for the 2016 Steggy Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr.
> 
> Title references the 1934 film _It Happened One Night_ , even though this story bears absolutely no resemblance to that one.
> 
> Please note: Steve uses a period-appropriate slang term for a sex act at one point. You can probably figure it out from context, but if not, I’ve footnoted it at the end.

**Saturday Night**

 

There were a lot of things Peggy loved about life after the war.

 

She loved the availability of silk stockings, eaux de toilette, and her favourite shade of lipstick.

 

She loved that she could own a dress in every colour of the rainbow, if she chose, and that features like pockets and full-length sleeves were no longer seen as wasteful.

 

She loved that she could let her hair grow past the arbitrary length dictated by military regulations—and that she had ample time to wash and set it properly.

 

She loved fresh meat and milky tea, and the abundance of both at every meal. For that matter, she loved eating in restaurants, and even at lunch counters, never once having to reconstitute her food from a package.

She loved getting a full eight hours of sleep in a proper bed—and sleeping in on weekends.

 

And most of all, she loved that Steve was here, and that they were embarking on this grand adventure together.

 

When they’d both accepted assignments at the New York office, a small part of her had worried that familiarity might breed, if not contempt, then certainly boredom.

 

Her fears were groundless: she and Steve were rarely together at the office, as Dooley seemed to take a perverse pleasure in assigning them opposing schedules. The only shift they regularly had in common was Mondays, when field agents were required to update the chief on the progress of their cases.

 

Dooley had apparently decided that Steve was all brawn and no brains, and rarely gave him the opportunity to do any serious investigating—and Steve had flatly refused to be involved in interrogations, which limited his usefulness as far as the chief was concerned. As for Peggy, her only assignments seemed to be sandwich orders and coffee, and taking minutes in meetings.

 

Apart from taking their breaks together when schedules permitted, she and Steve really only had time to see each other on weekends. Still, it was more than enough.

 

Falling in love in wartime was a bit like rationing; she’d had to wring every last drop of feeling out of each longing look and seemingly accidental touch. Now, they worked at neighbouring desks, close enough that they could have held hands in the aisle, though they’d never been daft enough to attempt the experiment. She’d once learned to subsist for weeks on just the sound of her name on his lips; now, she got to see his indecently handsome face at least once a day, if only during the shift change.

 

After living for so long in the gathering shadow, it seemed almost impossible that there might be hours in the day for anything as ordinary as a picture show. A whole afternoon or evening, a stretch of hours with nothing to focus on but each other, that felt… extravagant.

 

So, on the whole, Peggy was very pleased with how things had worked out.

 

There was just one tiny obstacle to be worked around.

 

Peggy couldn’t risk smuggling Steve into the Griffith. She liked living there, and she wasn’t about to endure an eviction and public shaming over her morning coffee. She’d made the tactical error of inviting him for tea in one of the public sitting rooms shortly after she’d moved in. Inconspicuousness was not one of Steve’s virtues, and he’d been well noted by many of her neighbours. Meaning, were he spotted trying to sneak in or out, there would be absolutely no doubt as to who he was and to whom he belonged.

 

The apartment Steve shared with Bucky was a studio, and hardly conducive to spontaneous entertaining. This didn’t seem to stop Bucky from bringing girls home without checking with Steve first; however, as Peggy had learned, Steve was naturally more reserved, at least in front of others.

 

This led to an additional complication, as Steve took a lot of convincing before he was willing to entertain romance in unconventional locations. It had taken her ages to get him on board with the national pastime of necking in the cinema—though that had as much to do with his compulsive penny-pinching as his dislike of performing for an audience. If he shelled out for a movie, he’d insisted, he was damn well going to get his money’s worth. (Undeterred, Peggy had simply paid him back the thirty-five cents and told him to pucker up.)

 

On this particular evening, however, she’d actually wanted to see the movie, and so had abandoned her usual attempts at seduction. There wasn’t a lot of overlap in their tastes: Steve liked screwball comedies and musicals, while Peggy generally preferred detective stories and costume dramas. Tonight, Steve had lost the coin toss, and so they’d wound up watching Glenn Ford try to wrangle an international cartel and Rita Hayworth simultaneously.

 

“What did you think?” she asked, as they stepped out of the theatre into the cool of the evening.

 

Steve, adorably, gave the question serious consideration before delivering his in-depth assessment: “It was all right.”

 

“Just all right?” she prompted.

 

“I didn’t buy the romance. They spent most of the movie being mean to each other. And I didn’t like that she went back with him in the end.”

 

“That’s because you’re a sap who only likes happy endings.”

 

“Yep,” he said easily, tucking her arm through his. “We’d better get the train. Don’t want Miss Fry to worry.”

 

Steve had been asked to give a full account of himself when he’d taken tea at the Griffith, including his name, address, and what he’d done during the war. Miss Fry hadn’t seemed even the slightest bit impressed at Steve’s modest admission that he’d been Captain America.

 

“Actually,” said Peggy, “I don’t have a curfew tonight.”

 

“How’d you swing that?”

 

“I’m ministering to a sick friend. That’s the official story.” She flashed him an impish grin.

 

He looked at her dubiously.

 

“I have a plan,” she assured him.

 

“I’m not going back to the park.” That had been an unmitigated disaster: they’d only escaped being brought up on charges of public indecency because the beat cop who’d caught them, a Brooklyn boy, had recognized Steve. For the price of an autograph, he’d been all too happy to let ‘Cap and his girl’ off with a warning, and Peggy had swallowed her pride and kept quiet.

 

“Actually, I’ve rented a room. We’re registered under Mr. and Mrs. Jones—for the sake of propriety,” she added quickly, seeing his eyebrows shoot up. “I’ve already checked us in, we can go any time you like.” She’d used the room to get ready for their date, so as to avoid presenting a suspicious appearance when she left the Griffith.

 

“So… you were thinking…”

 

She stood on her toes to kiss him. He kissed her back, thorough, searching, one large hand warming the small of her back before drifting lower to roam over her bottom. His other hand slipped inside her jacket and curved around her ribcage, his thumb just brushing the underside of her breast. It was a testament to his state of mind that he didn’t look around to see if anyone was watching.

 

It had been a long wait, for both of them. And Peggy, for one, was tired of waiting.

 

“I was thinking,” she said, breathlessly, “that we could do with a bit of privacy.”

 

“Privacy,” he echoed, imitating her short- _i_ pronunciation.

 

“Stop.”

 

“What? I like the way you say it.” The hand inside her jacket was getting a little bolder—migrating closer to where, she suspected, they both wanted it to be.

 

“Do you want to see me with my kit off or not?”

 

She was amused to discover that, after all this time—even when he was on the verge of feeling her up in public—she could still make him blush.

 

 

**Sunday Night**

 

Coming off a late shift, the only thing open in the neighbourhood was the L&L. Thompson hadn’t eaten there in weeks; it was Carter and Rogers’ preferred lunch spot, and the two of them combined were enough to give anyone indigestion.

 

But there wasn’t much chance of catching either of them there in the middle of the night. And the food was decent, even if the service was a little chatty.

 

Thompson and Sousa had the place to themselves while they ate. In between freshening their coffee, the two waitresses sat a few tables over, doing prep work for the breakfast service: filling up salt and pepper shakers, restocking napkin dispensers. Talking away a mile a minute the whole time.

 

That was one thing that could be said about Carter, at least; she never gossiped. Never filled the air with empty chatter, the way so many dames seemed to do. It was like they’d saved up all their talking until the men came back from the fight, and now they were desperate to get it all out.

 

But Sousa was too busy eating to make conversation, which left Jack with no other way to entertain himself.

 

“No, Dolores! I just can’t!” He recognized the speaker as one of the girls who lived in the same henhouse where Carter boarded—Audrey, Annie, something with an A. “She’s my friend, and it’s—God, she would _die_ if I told you.” Angie. That was it.

 

“Look, I don’t even _know_ any of your friends. I’d never know the difference. You could give her a fake name,” Dolores suggested. “You know, an alibi?”

 

Thompson smirked into his coffee at the malapropism. _Don’t quit your day job, sweetheart._

 

“Yeah, sure, okay,” said Angie, clearly chomping at the bit to air her friend’s dirty laundry. “I could do that. But… do you swear not to breathe a word to anyone?”

 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Dolores, drawing an X over what Jack supposed passed for her bosom.

 

 _This_ was why you couldn’t trust girls to do intelligence work, Jack thought. They just couldn’t keep secrets.

 

“So my friend… Betty? She’s got this boyfriend, uh, Stan? They work together. At the phone company.”

 

Thompson nearly did a spit-take. This was too good.

 

Sousa was hunched over his blue-plate special, completely oblivious. Jack kicked him under the table to get his attention.

 

“He’s a dream,” Angie continued. “Tall, good-looking, nice smile, nice eyes, nice… all over. And just _nice_ , too—polite, I mean. A little shy, but real sweet.”

 

Dolores gave an appreciative giggle. “I bet.”

 

“Their work keeps them kinda busy, and they don’t get much of a chance to go out. But they had a date last night. And, from what she tells me? It was a complete train wreck.”

 

“Oh _no_ ,” breathed Dolores, not sounding too torn up about it. You could tell she was the type who liked to revel in some more attractive girl’s misfortunes.

 

Sousa was still stuffing his face like someone was going to fight him for it. Jack kicked him again, harder, producing a hollow knock.

 

“You do that one more time, I’m gonna take it off and smack you with it,” Sousa remarked, without looking up from his food.

 

“Would you just—” He jerked his head in the direction of the two girls, touching his ear surreptitiously.

 

Sousa cut his eyes in their direction. Thompson nodded.

 

“…and you know Miss Fry’s got this cockamamie rule about no men above the first floor,” Angie was saying. “So Betty decides she’s gonna go all out, and rent a room at a hotel, so that they can have a little alone time, and no one gets evicted. She tells Miss Fry she’s gonna stay over with a sick friend, see.”

 

“And Fry bought that? With Betty all dressed up and everything?”

 

“Oh, she didn’t get dressed up until after she left. She’s smart that way, always thinks about the details.”

 

“So what was it? Was he a bad kisser? All talk and no action?” Dolores’s weary tone suggested that she was a woman of some experience in this department. “Too quick on the draw?”

 

“No. _Worse_.” In a stage whisper, she said, “She _fell asleep_.”

 

“Afterwards?”

 

“During.”

 

“Oh my God!” gasped Dolores through her fingers. “That bad?”

 

“She wouldn’t say. But it can’t’ve been good, right?”

 

“So what’d he have to say about it?”

 

“I dunno. She said he—”

 

Whistling loudly to get their attention, Sousa called, “Can we get the check over here?”

 

“You moron,” Thompson hissed. “They were talking about—”

 

“I know. I don’t feel like listening to it.”

 

“What do you mean, you know?”

 

“Well, I know he was supposed to take her out on Saturday. And that she was looking forward to it.” Off Jack’s look, he added, “She and I worked the overnight on Friday. We got to talking.”

 

“You ought to take up boxing,” said Jack, taking out his wallet.

 

Sousa waited a beat before prompting, “Because?”

 

“Because you’re a masochist.”

 

“Yeah, that and a quarter and you could pay for my coffee. Is that all you’re gonna tip, big spender?”

 

Jack peeled off a dollar and flicked it magnanimously onto the table. It was the least he could do, after the ammunition the girls had given him.

 

For the first time in a long time, Jack Thompson was looking forward to Monday morning.

 

 

**Monday Morning**

 

Not wanting to miss the fun, Jack got in a half-hour before anyone else. He bided his time, waiting until Rogers and a few of the other guys had filed in. Carter was late, of course. The amount of slack Dooley cut her was criminal; a male agent, or a less attractive girl, wouldn’t get away with half the stunts she pulled.

 

He fetched himself a cup of coffee and paused at Rogers’ desk on his way back.

 

“Good weekend, Steve?” Thompson always made a point of calling him by his first name. Regardless of who he’d been during the war, Captain America was a comic book character. Steve Rogers was just a field agent, same as the rest of them.

 

“Can’t complain. You?”

 

“Same old same old. What’d you get up to?”

 

“Went to the movies,” he replied, neutral.

 

“Oh, yeah? What’d you see?”

 

“ _Gilda_.”

 

“I saw that one,” said Sousa, always eager to answer a question no one had asked. “It was great. Rita Hayworth. She’s something else.”

 

Rogers nodded. “I’ll say.” There were murmurs of approval elsewhere in the bullpen.

 

“You fellas know she doesn’t do her own singing, right?” asked Jack.

 

“I don’t mind that,” replied Sousa, grinning. “As long as she does her own dancing.”

 

“She was on the USO circuit around the same time I was,” Rogers announced, just in case anyone happened to forget for even a second that he used to be a minor celebrity.

 

Sousa was suitably impressed. “No kidding! You ever get to meet her?”

 

“No, but I did meet Marlene Dietrich.”

 

They were getting off-track. Jack made a course correction with, “Your date didn’t mind you gawking at Rita all night?”

 

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Who says I had a date?”

 

“Saturday night? Come on.” Jack gestured expansively. “I had a date. Ramirez had a date. Krzeminski had two dates. Sousa had dinner at his mom’s house.” Sousa rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. “But Captain America went to the pictures alone? I don’t buy it.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but—” He broke off as Carter strode purposefully into the bullpen.

 

She always came to work looking sharp, but on this particular morning, there was an extra crispness to her edges, from the taut tailored lines of her suit to the snap of her heels on the polished floor.

 

“Bit early for a coffee break, boys,” she remarked, sweeping past them majestically.

 

Rogers sat up a little straighter in his chair, but didn’t reply—just watched in doleful silence as Carter hung up her hat and coat. She avoided looking at him entirely. She didn’t usually lump him in with the rest of the crew when delivering her insults—a sign that things really had gone south between them.

 

“You applying for a job with the Naval Observatory, sweetheart?” Thompson inquired, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll be glad to write you a reference.”

 

“You’re not my superior,” she fired back, slapping her gloves down on the corner of her desk.

 

“If I was, you’d get to work on time. But that’s all right, Carter. We all know you need your _beauty sleep_.”

 

The shot definitely landed; she looked up sharply, her eyes darting from one face to the next, obviously trying to decide whether Rogers had been spilling his guts to the assembled company.

 

Rogers, meanwhile, seemed to be checking the shine on his shoes.

 

“Captain Rogers,” she said icily, “a word?”

 

A couple of the guys _oooooh_ ed.

 

Before Rogers could reply, Dooley came charging out of his office, barking out names as he went past. “Briefing room, now. Rogers. Krzeminski. Johnson.” The three biggest guys in the outfit. Clearly some kind of a dumb muscle job. But then, almost as an afterthought: “Carter!”

 

“Chief?”

 

“Don’t play innocent.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the briefing room. Probably wanted her to take notes, Thompson figured.

 

Carter seemed to have reached the same conclusion: she snatched up her notebook and pencil and took off at a brisk trot.

 

“Saved by the bell, huh, pal?” Thompson gave Rogers a friendly sock in the arm—forgetting, until it was too late, that it would’ve been more fun to punch a brick wall.

 

Rogers got up from his chair, looking like he might slug Thompson for real. Instead, though, he brushed past him without a word.

 

Which just went to show you how much that famous Captain America showboating counted for, when the cameras weren’t rolling.

 

*

 

The meeting went on longer than Thompson would have expected, given who the participants were. Not exactly a brain trust.

 

When it finally broke up, Krzeminski couldn’t wait to spill the beans.

 

“You guys are not gonna believe this.” The big lug helped himself to a chair opposite Thompson. “Carter took a job on the weekend!”

 

“Yeah, I bet she did,” said Jack, making a lewd gesture.

 

“Hey, shut up,” Sousa protested.

 

“Walk over here and make me, Lancelot.”

 

“Fellas.” Krzeminski was determined not to let them ruin his big scoop. “I shit you not. She creamed at least half a dozen guys and brought back the Zodiac formula. The tip came in when she took that shift for me on Friday night, and the operator said a lady took the message. Chief figured she tipped off one of us, but no, she went after it herself.”

 

“Friday night?” Sousa looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 

“I don’t buy it,” said Thompson. “One girl against six armed operatives? She had to’ve had help. Rogers?”

 

“Nope. He was doing some Captain America handshake parade. There are pictures in the paper. He was as surprised as the rest of us. Besides, Carter fessed up. _And_ she had the formula in her fuckin’ handbag.” He cackled. “I only wish I could’ve seen it.”

 

“What’d Dooley say?”

 

Krzeminski shrugged. “He kicked us all out. She’s still in there, getting her ass handed to her.”

 

Thompson swivelled in his chair. “Weren’t you on the late shift that night, Danny boy? You didn’t notice her ducking out?”

 

Sousa shrugged. “She left early. Said she wasn’t feeling so hot. I said I’d cover for her.”

 

“You dope.” Krzeminski was practically crowing. “She played you like a toy violin. She knows you’re sweet on her.”

 

“I’ve got three sisters, is what she knows. She said it was lady troubles.”

 

The other guys shifted in their seats.

 

“Yeah, the trouble is that Dooley decided to let ladies into the bullpen,” Thompson retorted. “Bet he’s thinking twice about that one.”

 

Rogers smacked his coffee cup down on his desk, making everyone jump. Thompson hadn’t heard him come in, had no idea how long he’d been there listening. He didn’t say anything—just sat down, hard, and started flicking through the message slips by his phone.

 

“Steve,” Thompson called. “You never did tell us who your mystery date was.”

 

“Marlene Dietrich,” Rogers shot back, picking up the telephone receiver.

 

“Jesus!” As usual, Krzeminski was ready to buy anything Rogers was selling. Thompson suspected he slept with Captain America trading cards under his pillow. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

 

“Yeah, she’s a real dream girl,” said Thompson, pointedly.

 

No reaction.

 

He anted up: “You better watch out she doesn’t get _tired_ of you.”

 

Rogers slammed the phone down and was out of his chair so quickly that Jack didn’t even have time to register it happening—he was just suddenly in a different place in the room.

 

“You got something to say to me?”

 

He hadn’t expected Rogers to call him out. He didn’t think the guy would want the whole office to know that his dick was the cure for insomnia, but he didn’t seem to care. It took Jack a minute to decide the best way to play it.

 

“Just a little friendly advice,” he said coolly.

 

Rogers didn’t reply right away—just stood with his hands in his pockets, watching him expectantly.

 

“Oh,” he said, after a moment. “Sorry. You didn’t say ‘sir,’ so I didn’t realize you were finished.”

 

Krzeminski’s mouth dropped open. Sousa snickered. The rest of the guys in the bullpen were grinning.

 

“Old habits,” said Rogers, pleasantly.

 

He was out of the room before Thompson had time to figure out a comeback.

 

*

 

Steve took the stairs up to the top floor, two at a time, then straight back down again.

 

It was Peggy who’d given him the idea; she’d confided in him that any time she felt like punching one of their colleagues, she found a quiet place to do one-handed push-ups. It grounded her, she said, and gave her an outlet for her energy. And it wasn’t bad exercise.

 

So whenever Steve wanted to put his fist through Thompson’s smug face, he ran laps up and down the building. He’d have to find a new spot for it soon: he occasionally caught some funny looks, and he was starting to wear a track into the stairs.

 

He knew Peggy didn’t need him sticking up for her, but he couldn’t stand the way those guys ragged on her when she wasn’t around. Cowardly was what it was; they were all too scared to say any of it to her face.

 

If she were a man, those assholes would be lining up to buy her drinks after what she’d done. She’d be the office hero for weeks, if not months. She’d closed a case that had eluded the SSR’s top agents, and she’d single-handedly recovered the last known sample of a compound thought to be a counterpart to the super-serum.

 

It was an incredible feat. Steve had had medals pinned on him for less.

 

She still wasn’t back at her desk when he returned. Most of the other agents were either on the phone or had their heads buried in paperwork. None of them dared to look him in the eye as he passed.

 

She wasn’t in the briefing room, the chief’s office, any of the interrogation rooms, or the kitchen. He finally found her in the file room, poring over three stacks of documentation piled almost as high as her chest.

 

She had shucked off her blazer and draped it over one of the tall cabinets; she had on a short-sleeved blouse, pale pink and fitted, a shiny-soft fabric that made him want to run his hands over it. Her charcoal skirt was the kind that hugged her hips, emphasizing the sway in her step as she crossed the room. And she smelled fantastic, as usual—like an English garden, with something warm beneath it that was just her.

 

For a hot second, Steve just stared at her, completely forgetting that they were supposed to be sore at each other.

 

“Something I can do for you?” She obviously hadn’t forgotten.

 

The radiators were running full blast, but he closed the door anyhow, not wanting to be overheard. “How’d it go with Dooley?”

 

“Better than I expected. I received a lecture, then a handshake, and then a reminder that I needed to file a mission report, ‘the same as any other cowboy around here.’ So that’s what I’m doing.” She gestured to the files on the table. “I’ve just spent the last half hour collecting the entire recorded history of the SSR’s wildest goose chase. You all have atrocious handwriting, incidentally.”

 

“At least I can spell ‘color’ properly,” he teased.

 

She went back to organizing without cracking a smile.

 

“You pull all these yourself?” he asked, mostly just for something to say.

 

“The girls are busy. And I couldn’t very well ask one of you lot.”

 

He watched her stand on her toes to replace an evidence box on a high shelf, pressing against the lower shelves as she did so. Steve had never known it was possible to be jealous of a shelf, until now.

 

“You could always ask me,” he said. “Though I guess I’d have to know how to read for something like that.”

 

“Before I came to work in this office, I’d never known a group of people so collectively invested in projecting their own mediocrity onto others,” she declared, brushing dust from the front of her clothes, which Steve found very distracting. “It’s baffling. You and I could be running this operation, and far more efficiently. Instead, I’m a glorified secretary and you’re a hired enforcer.”

 

“Except that you’re lousy at shorthand, and I don’t hit people who can’t hit back.”

 

She did smile, that time; it was brief, but it was something, at least.

 

“Is that why you didn’t tell me about Zodiac? Because I’m one of the boys?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t tell anyone.”

 

“I’m not anyone.”

 

“You would have insisted on coming along,” she told him, her tone more gentle. “I didn’t want that. Not this time. Because then, through no fault of yours, it would have become your achievement instead of mine.”

 

Steve nodded, acknowledging the truth of her statement. “After it was done, though?”

 

She sighed, taking his hand. “I never meant to keep it a secret from you. But we give so much of ourselves to this office, to this job… I wanted us to have one night away. And I’d already put a deposit on the room.”

 

“That reminds me. I want to give you some money towards that.”

 

He realized instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say. She pulled her hand back, and the soft look on her face disappeared; when she spoke again, it was in the brusque tone she normally reserved for the rest of their SSR cohort.

 

“It’s quite all right. You never used it.”

 

“Peggy—”

 

“I’m going to lunch,” she told him, biting the words off.

 

“It’s early for lunch,” he pointed out.

 

“Then I’m going to the ladies’. Just move aside.”

 

“Look, I didn’t tell those guys anything,” he said. “I don’t know how Thompson found out. He’s been riding me about it all morning.” He didn’t add that he’d probably made things worse by descending to Thompson’s level. He wasn’t proud of himself for that.

 

“I believe you.”

 

“Then why are you busting my chops?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You heard me. You’re the one who fell asleep while I was…” He made a vague gesture.

 

She folded her arms, waiting.

 

“High-diving,” he continued, gamely. “I mean, it makes sense now. You’d been up all night, you were tired, lights off, comfortable bed… it had nothing to do with me. Right?”

 

“No, it did have to do with you.”

 

It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. He coloured up, stung. “Oh.”

 

“No, I don’t mean—that was fine, you were fine, it was lovely.” She might have been blushing a little, though it could have just been that the room was warm. “But it had to do with you, in the sense that I… felt safe with you. I felt I could let my guard down.”

 

“Oh,” he said again, softer.

 

“But that still doesn’t excuse what happened after.”

 

“See? There it is again! You keep talking like I did something, and I’m supposed to know what it was, and I don’t!”

 

He expected her to yell, but instead, she got quiet. “You didn’t stay.”

 

“What?”

 

“I know we never discussed it, but… I’d assumed that you’d want to stay the night, regardless.”

 

She looked hurt, and Steve would’ve done anything in the world to fix it. Only he didn’t know how. Because she had the wrong idea, completely.

 

“Of course I wanted to stay.”

 

“Then why didn’t you?”

 

“I didn’t know if you’d want me to. We didn’t exactly talk about it beforehand. I tried to ask, but I couldn’t wake you up long enough to get an answer. What was I supposed to do, dump cold water on you?”

 

“Better that, than sneaking out like a—a thief in the night!”

 

“Come on!” he protested, forgetting to keep his voice low. “I didn’t _sneak out_. I tucked you in, I put the do not disturb sign on the door, I left a note—”

 

“You did not leave a note!”

 

“I put it on the pillow next to you! It’s not my fault you didn’t see it!”

 

Most people, when confronted with evidence that they’d made a mistake, would take the hit and apologize. Peggy, Steve had noticed, tended to double down, especially if she was embarrassed.

 

“How would I have known to look for it?” she demanded, squaring her shoulders defiantly. “What sensible person leaves a note in the middle of a bed where someone’s sleeping?”

 

“I do!”

 

“Well, you’re a flaming idiot!”

 

Steve always made it a point, in social situations, never to loom over anyone, or crowd them unnecessarily, because he’d always hated that when he was smaller. Just now, though, he was too annoyed to give Peggy a wide berth; he’d backed her right up against the table, until they were practically nose-to-nose.

 

The air in the file room was getting close. He could see it was affecting her: her colour was high, her curls were starting to droop a little, and there was a single drop of perspiration in the hollow of her throat. Just looking at it made him thirsty.

 

“If I’m such an idiot,” he shot back, “then what’s that make you?”

 

“A woman in love with an idiot, apparently!”

 

“What?”

 

Peggy froze, wide-eyed. “I,” she began.

 

It was as far as she got before Steve decided they were through talking.

 

Peggy clearly had the same thought; even as he grabbed her by the waist, she was already meeting him halfway. Their mouths collided in a bruising kiss, unlike any they’d shared before. The last time he’d felt anything like this was during the war; it was a little easier to focus on what was happening when he wasn’t also trying to balance on top of a moving car.

 

Without breaking contact, she shifted her weight onto the table, files fluttering to the floor as she did so. The sound broke his concentration; Steve pulled away to glance down at the scattered pages. Peggy grabbed his tie and tugged, directing his attention back to where it belonged.

 

He kissed her again and pulled her closer, more roughly than he’d intended. She got a little rough with him in return, wrapping her legs around his hips and jerking him towards her, yanking at his belt buckle.

 

Steve had worked with Peggy for years. He’d known her as a combat instructor, as a sparring partner, as a comrade-in-arms. And yet, somehow, in all that time, he’d never given any thought to how her physical strength and indomitable force of will might translate into this particular aspect of her life.

 

Which was probably just as well; if the thought _had_ occurred to him, he would almost certainly have been too distracted to help win the war.

 

“We can’t do this here,” he panted, letting her shove his pants down over his hips. He had a dim recollection of saying those exact words shortly before the infamous Prospect Park incident.

 

“You locked the door,” she murmured against his lips.

 

“Because I wanted to _talk_ to you, not…” His train of thought derailed completely when she began undoing the buttons on her blouse. Compared with so much bare, beautiful skin under his hands, the possibility of discovery seemed distant and inconsequential.

 

He could see now why she’d insisted on keeping the lights off at the hotel. There were darkening bruises on her collarbone, and a bloom of them all along one shoulder. He suspected there were more under the makeup on her face and neck.

 

She projected so much confidence that he forgot she could be hurt like this, much more easily than he could.

 

“Don’t be a sap,” she said huskily, reaching back to unhook her brassiere.

 

“Just tell me if I squeeze you too tight,” he told her, lightly kissing the constellation of bruises, before moving to lick the little dewdrop from the base of her throat. She made a sound of unabashed appreciation and slid her fingers into his hair.

 

Things progressed quickly after that; it had been a long, slow dance, with plenty of time for each to learn the other’s moves. He knew the way she liked to be kissed and touched; he knew what would make her sigh, what would make her tense up, what would make her toes curl in her shoes.

 

But he didn’t know everything, not yet. When he pushed her skirt up, he encountered something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

 

“Just give me a second here.” She didn’t usually wear stockings on their dates; he suspected it was as much out of consideration for his lack of experience, as for the obvious convenience factor.

 

Peggy made an impatient noise.

 

“I wasn’t expecting the hardware,” he said, drolly, giving one of the suspenders a little snap.

 

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “For fuck’s sake” and pushed his hands away, releasing the clips.

 

“I wanted to do that.”

 

“You can do it the next time.” She lifted up off the table, letting him pull her panties down. He didn’t like to drop them on the dirty floor, but he didn’t see any other option.

 

He couldn’t help but feel that Peggy deserved so much more than this hasty rendezvous. She ought to be loved slowly, thoroughly. He wanted to undress her, to worship every inch of her, to map the topography of her skin for hours, days, lifetimes. And he pictured all of this happening somewhere elegant, or at least comfortable—a big soft bed with lots of pillows, maybe flowers in the room, nice music playing on the radio. He wanted to give her all of that, and more.

 

She must have read something in his face, because she stopped what she was doing, tilting her head to one side. “All right?” she asked.

 

He nodded. As much as he wanted things to be perfect, he also wanted this—giving in to the urgency of the moment, letting the passion that had been building between them for so long overcome them at last.

 

Most importantly of all, she wanted it too.

 

And then she kissed him, and slid her hand down the front of his drawers, and he stopped worrying—stopped thinking at all, really. She was everything, and the world around him narrowed to her soft, hot hand and the sweetness of her mouth.

 

She lined him up and he pushed in, taking it slow, as much for his own sake as hers; she felt impossibly good, almost too much to bear. She groaned, grasping at his shoulders, shuddering, and that alone was nearly enough to undo him.

 

“Oh, God, _oh_ ,” she gasped, sounding surprised.

 

He thought maybe he should stop, should check to make sure she was okay—but then she rocked against him, taking him in deeper, setting off sparks.

 

She picked up speed, setting a punishing rhythm that he wasn’t quite able to catch. It was still good—really good—but he felt awkward, unpracticed, outmatched. He’d thought he was ready for this, ready to make it good for her. Maybe he’d been wrong.

 

But then she slowed a little, letting him set the pace, and that was better. They were finally in sync, and he couldn’t stop moving now, couldn’t get enough of her.

 

“I love you so much,” he told her, helpless, euphoric. He’d waited so long for the right time to say it; she’d beaten him to the punch, as usual. “I can’t—Peggy, I’m gonna—”

 

“ _Yes_ , Steve,” she breathed—and he could feel it starting inside her, knew enough to know what that tightening and pulsing meant. She swore, and pleaded, and clutched at him, using his shoulder to muffle her cries of pleasure. He drove into her, deeper, faster, until it flowed into him too—hot, sweet, electric, tiny stars bursting under his skin.

 

Afterwards, the room was completely still, apart from the ticking of the radiator and their ragged breathing. He gathered her close, pressed a kiss to her temple.

 

“That,” he murmured, “was not romantic.”

 

She laughed softly into his shoulder. “Oh, darling. It absolutely was.”

 

They stayed like that for a while, holding each other tightly, neither one moving or speaking. He could hear footsteps outside, and chatter, but no one seemed to need any files, at least for the time being.

 

At length, she stirred, rolling her shoulders before stretching her arms up over her head. “You have the most appalling way of making one feel out of shape.”

 

“Really?” He couldn’t help but notice that all the stretching was doing fantastic things for her décolletage. “Kinda felt like I was trying to keep up with you.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere you haven’t already been,” she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling.

 

“You wanna go to lunch?”

 

“Is eating all you think about?”

 

“Eating, and you.”

 

“In that order, no doubt.”

 

“Or both at once.” He nuzzled at her neck. “Did you get your eight hours last night?”

 

“Don’t start what you can’t finish.” She planted both hands on his chest, pushing him away gently but firmly. “Go. I’ll meet you at the automat. It won’t do to have me walking out of here, with you, looking freshly ravished.”

 

Truth be told, she did look indecent: bare to the waist, skirt pushed up around her hips, stockings coming down, hair and makeup in gorgeous disarray.

 

“You ought to look like that every day,” he told her, grinning.

 

She pulled her knee up, striking a pinup pose, and winked. “You’d never get anything done.”

 

“I’d get at least one thing done.”

 

He didn’t miss the sudden flash of heat in her look.

 

“You know…” He bent down and started scooping together her paperwork, now hopelessly jumbled. “Dooley probably made the right call, not letting us work together.”

 

“Mm,” she agreed, shrugging back into her brassiere. “Clearly we can’t be trusted. You haven’t seen my knickers down there, by any chance?”

 

He passed them up to her.

 

“Thank you. Imagine if we both drew the overnight shift,” she continued, her foot brushing his shoulder. “The whole place to ourselves. You could have me right on your desk.”

 

“Yours is cleaner,” he countered, stacking the papers on the table beside her and leaning up for a kiss.

 

She hummed against his mouth, as though he tasted good. “Something to consider.”

 

He knew he would do just that from now on—that every time he looked over at her desk, he’d be picturing her draped on top of it. “You’re a menace,” he said.

 

“And you’re a mess. Come here.”

 

Peggy always claimed she wasn’t a sentimental person, but there was a certain tenderness about the way she tidied him up: tamping down his hair, fixing his collar and tie. He helped her straighten up too; she probably could have done it quicker on her own, but that wasn’t really the point.

 

Once they were both presentable, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and was about to walk out when Peggy told him to wait. “Look,” she said, showing him the mirror in her compact.

 

“Good catch,” he said, accepting the handkerchief she offered. He’d already lifted it to his face when she stilled his hand.

 

“On second thought,” she said, “I’ve got an idea.”

 

*

 

“Nice of you to join us, Steve,” said Jack, as Rogers strolled into the bullpen and sat down.

 

“Some of us gotta work for a living around here. I needed a couple files.”

 

“Yeah? Where’re they at?”

 

He looked down at his desk, as if he expected the files to have materialized there in advance of his arrival. “Huh,” he said, unconvincingly.

 

Sousa asked, “Was one of the girls helping you pull files, Cap?”

 

Which was when Thompson saw that Rogers had a smear of lipstick starting at the corner of his mouth and tapering off over his cheekbone.

 

“Someone was helping him pull somethin’,” said Krzeminski.

 

Rogers took out a handkerchief and scrubbed at his face, declaring, “Need to know only, boys.” Before he put the hanky back in his pocket, Thompson noticed it had an edging of lace.

 

With the kind of timing usually only found in Broadway shows, Carter waltzed in, an armload of manila folders clutched to her chest. She deposited them on her desk, then sat down with a flourish. Her lipstick was the right shade, and looked freshly applied.

 

Krzeminski bellowed, “Marlene Dietrich!”

 

Carter glanced up, shooting him a look that suggested she thought he might have lost his mind entirely. After a moment, she shook her head and went back to leafing through reports.

 

Most of the guys seemed impressed—except for Sousa, who looked like he might cry.

 

For the next quarter of an hour or so, the bullpen bustled, but Thompson doubted that any actual work was getting done. Carter was putting on a good show of it, at least; Rogers seemed to just be moving things from one spot to another, and tossing old message slips into the circular file.

 

Finally, he leaned into the aisle and touched Carter on the shoulder. She looked up from her paperwork, flashing him a thousand-watt smile.

 

“You hungry?” he asked.

 

“Famished. Shall we?”

 

He stood, taking her coat down from its hook. She normally turned her nose up at that sort of treatment, but she let him help her into it, still beaming.

 

“I see you’ve tidied your desk,” she said approvingly.

 

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for the suggestion.”

 

It sure didn’t take long, Thompson reflected, for a girl to start in with the husband-training. But then, Carter was obviously running the long game, if she was willing to keep giving him chances.

 

 

**Monday Afternoon**

 

Angie was a little surprised to see Peggy walk in with Steve at the usual time. Even more surprising, they were both in a pretty good mood: smiling at each other, cracking jokes with her while she took their orders. They were even holding hands across the table when she came to put the plates down. She’d never seen them do that before; Steve wasn’t what Angie would have called the romantic type.

 

Still, it was nice that they’d found a way to work things out. They were awfully cute together, and he seemed to make Peggy happy.

 

And even if Steve wasn’t exactly a thrill-a-minute kind of guy, well… there were more important things in life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The US Naval Observatory operates the US Master Clock, and used to broadcast the national time signal via wireless (they now do it by phone and internet). For my fellow Canadians, the equivalent would be the National Research Council Canada. ([Source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Naval_Observatory))
> 
> Rita Hayworth did perform in a number of USO shows, as did Marlene Dietrich. Both of them travelled over a million miles touring for the USO. ([Source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Service_Organizations))
> 
> “High-diving,” in common use ca. 1939: cunnilingus. ([Source](http://timeglider.com/timeline/4a29b5e38116bfcb))
> 
> P.S. I’m aware that it was very irresponsible of them not to use protection. They are clearly an impulsive pair of idiots who deserve each other.


End file.
